


The Ghosts of Hollyblossom Lane

by mainecoon76



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Mystery, Pre-Reichenbach, Supernatural Elements, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2701892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the priest of an ancient church approaches Holmes with a ghostly tale, the detective welcomes the case as a pleasant distraction. But the adventure proves to be a dangerous one, and Watson makes a discovery he will never bring himself to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghosts of Hollyblossom Lane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WinryWeiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinryWeiss/gifts).



> I apologize for any archeological and geographical mistakes. I used wikipedia to my best knowledge, but errors are entirely possible. (But then, I am in good company. *points to certain stories about snakes and milk*)
> 
> Betaed by and discussed with mrs_sweetpeach, AKA Haven on AO3. Once again, thank you so much! :)

_Private Diary of Dr John H. Watson, October 10th, 1936._

I have heard it say, and also seen it several times in the course of my long and moderately successful medical career, that men have a tendency to become maudlin in their declining years. Fanciful, my dearest friend used to call it, and forgetful of the most important things, living in constant reminiscence of a past they make up largely from their own fantasies. Sometimes I cannot help but wonder if that deplorable condition affects my own person, and I can put my full trust in the fact that, should my battered old mind neglect to remind me of the necessary destruction of these notes, the contents will be taken as a sign of mental deterioration. But the opposite is true. In writing down the strangest tale I experienced, I am making the effort to train myself to distinguish between truth and fantasy, to make sure that I can still accurately divide between what did truly happen, and what did not.

 

My friend Holmes stated once in relation to one particularly bizarre case that no ghosts need apply at our agency. Yet they did with none too rare occurrence. In the overwhelming majority of those cases the ghostly proceedings where dissected and reduced to human interference by Holmes' unfailing logic. There is but one single instance that my rational mind failed to grasp. Holmes himself counted this case as one of his rare failures and a frustrating affair altogether. I must admit, though, that in this particular instance there remained a few details I withheld from him, partly because I did not think he would believe me and partly for another reason that will become clear in due time. Be that as it may, he never got the full picture, nor do I believe that I have obtained it myself. But for many years I thought it best to let the matter rest, and if I write it down now, it is merely, as I mentioned before, meant as a form of mental and emotional exercise.

It was, as I recall, a rainy afternoon in October 1886 when the strange events to which I am referring were brought to our doorstep, or, more accurately, to our living room. Holmes was stretched out in his favourite armchair beside the fireplace, looking half-asleep to all who did not know him better, while our friend Lestrade of Scotland Yard was relaying to him the most important proceedings regarding the aftermath of the Winfield smuggling affair. The good inspector was not a regular visitor in those early days of our acquaintance, and not as close a friend as he became during the decades that followed, but he called upon occasion to discuss criminal matters and enjoy a piece of Mrs Hudson's apple tart. The visits were no doubt beneficial to his own career, but they also disrupted Holmes' ennui and kept him occupied to a certain degree, which is why I welcomed them immensely.

My friend's eyes brightened even before I heard the footsteps on the stairs, and ere the door was opened I understood that our quiet afternoon was about to be disrupted by something he deemed far more interesting than Lestrade's bureaucratic report. He rose swiftly and just in time to greet the very portly, ruddy-faced gentleman who was shown into our quarters.

"Mr Holmes, I believe? The famous detective?" 

Holmes graced our visitor with his most charming smile, which told me that he was in considerable hopes of hearing an interesting tale.

"The very same, Reverend Father. Do sit down and rest for a moment before you tell us what brought you here. I can tell that you do not usually travel this far from Latham, and your constitution does not take kindly to the strain."

"That is true, and very kind of you, sir. My name is Thomas Haddington, and I am Reverend of St Michael's Church in Hollyblossom Lane. You will excuse me if I take a seat?"

Our visitor accepted the armchair I offered him with obvious relief, and I began to see why Holmes expected his tale to be an engaging one. The reverend was an elderly gentleman with a ruddy face and white side whiskers, and the sweat on his brow indicated that the physical extortion of climbing our stairs was more than his usual amount of exercise; yet he had moved with apparent haste, which spoke of undue agitation. The mud stains across the man's shoes must have told Holmes where he had started on his journey.

"May I introduce my colleagues," Holmes announced with a flourish that made Lestrade roll his eyes behind my friend's back, "My friend and associate Dr Watson, and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

"I was just about to leave," Lestrade offered, but our visitor shook his head.

"Not for my sake, Inspector," he protested. "I doubt that the Yard has any use for a story like mine; but I do not mind a policeman getting an idea of this, just in case there is foul play behind it after all. I simply have no idea what to think of it."

Lestrade sunk back into his seat, and Holmes nodded encouragingly. "Very well. Proceed."

"Our church is a small one," the clergyman began. "More of a chapel, seen by daylight. But it is very old, and recently we found evidence that it is built over the ruins of an even older building - a temple, they say, Roman for sure and possibly even older. A part of the floor broke down and there were chambers underneath. I would be proud to say this, but more than that I am worried by the damage that is done. It is the underground railway works, you see. These old buildings suffer from the vibrations, and I am afraid that one day the church will collapse on top of me - or worse, my parishioners."

The reverend paused to sip his tea, and Holmes leant back in his seat, admirably disguising his impatience.

"I've been taking care of the church and the parish for thirty-five years," Haddington continued, "and nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. I liked it that way. It is a lonely life at times, but I have my cats and my duties, the parishioners come to my door every so often to share their joys and sorrows, and my church is never empty during service. I am a content man, Mr Holmes, and not given to fancy. There is no way I can explain what happened to me last night."

"You were in the church, I presume?"

"Yes, I was sorting the hymnals and checking for missing pages. It happens at times that I stay in the church until the late hours of the night. I always found the atmosphere of a soothing quality. Not anymore, I am afraid."

Our visitor pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his sweating forehead. Holmes gestured for him to continue.

"It must have been around ten post meridiem, certainly hours after sunset, when I was disrupted from my work by a strange light coming from the far end of the church. I looked up and saw a figure standing beside the altar. A human figure, Mr Holmes, only it was not human, for it was not carrying a lamp and yet it was glowing!

I must admit that I have never been so terrified in my life, but still I rose and walked up along the aisle, for if there was an intruder it was my duty to investigate the matter, and I was not sure whether my tired mind was playing fanciful tricks on me. But when I approached the figure, it turned around and in the strange glow that it emitted I could see its face. I knew that face, Mr Holmes, and though you will not believe me, I swear I would not be here if I did not. It was old Mettlecombe, who had been sexton of the church when I was a boy. He died twenty-five years ago."

Haddington paused and reached for his tea with shaking hands. For a moment none of us spoke.

"I must have stopped in horror, but when he turned around and stared at me, it seemed that he was just as terrified by the encounter as I was. His apparition wavered briefly, and then he retreated - I cannot say how or where, though I am sure he did not walk - but I felt a wave of cold pass through the air, and then he was gone.

It must have taken me a moment to collect myself, but then I gathered my things and closed the church to head for the vicarage as fast as I could. When I stepped outside I saw a woman walking on the path in front of the church. She was shining with the same strange light, and though I had never seen her before, she looked at me with the same terror as Mettlecombe's apparition had before she disappeared. I have never run home so quickly, sir, and it is only for my sense of duty towards my parish that I did not come to you as soon as I could this morning. I had promised to make some visits, and I would not want anybody to suspect that something is amiss."

The reverend paused and looked at each of us in turn.

"Now you have heard my story, Gentlemen. What do you make of it?"

None of us answered immediately. Holmes lounged in his seat with steepled fingers and the characteristic far-away look on his face that spoke of deepest concentration. I watched him for a moment, wondering what his sharp mind would divine from the strange tale, and also privately admiring the beauty that was inherent in the picture of Sherlock Holmes lost in thought. Lestrade met my eyes and raised an eyebrow, the disbelief in his expression not subtle in the slightest. Holmes always accused our friend of possessing little to no skills of imagination.

"Do you believe, then," Holmes inquired after a while, "that you truly saw ghosts?"

"I don't believe in ghosts, Mr Holmes," the reverend protested. "I never did. And you'd think I would have met them before, if they really existed. But if it was not ghosts, then what did I see? I assure you the apparitions were as real to me as you and your colleagues are now."  
Holmes nodded pensively. "What indeed? Tell me, Reverend Father, has anything out of the ordinary happened in your parish lately? Could there be someone with an interest to drive you out of the church?"

The priest frowned.

"Not that I know of. Why would one do such a thing?" His fingers were drumming a nervous rhythm against his teacup. "The only major disturbance occurred when a piece of the floor collapsed recently... it must have been around four weeks ago, I think. I already mentioned the underground works. The resulting hole in the floor revealed several corridors of rough stone and two small chambers, one of them containing what looks like it might have been an altar. The structures are of archeological value and have been inspected by a team of specialists, but there are no treasures to be found. No relics, no artefacts." 

"Perhaps someone thinks otherwise."

"But they could simply wait until I leave for the night."

"Then you lock the door behind you." Holmes rose to retrieve his pipe from the mantle. "I would very much like to inspect those chambers, Reverend Father. I am afraid I have an appointment this evening, but if you could spare me the time tomorrow, I could be at your service at, say, ten a.m.?"

"I would be very much obliged." The reverend rose with considerable effort. "The more I think of it, the more I am sure that there must be a reasonable explanation. I refuse to be frightened away from my church."

"Do not go back tonight."

Lestrade spoke for the first time since our visitor had begun his tale. His posture was as relaxed as ever, but it seemed to me that there was a hint of worry in his dark eyes.

"I am tempted to do just that. Whoever wishes to drive me out will have a hard time of it, may they be ghosts or living beings."

"You are a brave man, Reverend," Lestrade conceded, "but if there is indeed foul play at work, you cannot know how far your opponents will go. Better to leave the case to us."

"Us?" my friend enquired, raising an eyebrow in Lestrade's direction. "I take it you wish to join Watson and me on this promising adventure?"

"Frankly, it seems more interesting than the deskwork that is waiting for me tomorrow morning," the inspector confessed with a rueful smile.

"I would be much obliged to you, Inspector," the reverend assured, and it seemed to me that he was already in considerably better spirits when he took his leave.

"One mind eased, for this evening," Holmes mused as our front door rattled into its lock. "The most urgent question is - who had a motive to upset him?"

 

The rain had ceased the next morning when our cab rattled through cobbled streets, but a heavy autumn fog clung to the air and made the trees and buildings outside disappear in a grey blur. My friend was in incongruously good spirits, not in the least affected by the gloom outside, and even offered a cheerful greeting to Lestrade when we stopped to collect the inspector in front of the Yard.

"It should be illegal to be in such a mood on a day like this," Lestrade informed him crossly. 

"I am already questioning the wisdom in my decision to accompany you. Paperwork does not seem such a chore right now."

"Ah, come on, Inspector, you cannot turn down a decent mystery!" Holmes returned with a merry gleam in his eyes. "A bit of foul weather cannot dampen the investigative ardour of the Yard's finest, can it?"

Lestrade glared at him, but wisely refrained from getting provoked into a verbal competition he had no hope of winning.

St Michael's Church turned out to be a small chapel that dated back to the 11th century, surrounded by a graveyard and closed off from the street by a thick hedge of rhododendron bushes. It was not difficult, I mused when we walked up the graveled path that led towards the church and the low brick building that must be the vicarage, to imagine unearthly forces at work in such a surrounding. Large chestnut trees appeared as little more than eerie shapes in the fog, the gravestones beside the road where withered and overgrown with ivy, and more than once I nearly slipped upon the wet autumn leaves that were covering the path, their bright colours faded and stained with dirt.

The church door was unlocked when Holmes pressed the handle, and my friend called out a greeting as we stepped into the hall. There was no answer beside the echo of our footsteps. I took some time to take in my surroundings, impressed by the venerable age of whitened stone walls and painted wooden furniture, of simple but roughly beautiful carvings and narrow windows of coloured glass that made the dim autumn light paint the grey stone floor in shades of yellow, red and blue.

A cry from Holmes interrupted my musings, and then my friend rushed forwards towards the human figure huddled in front of the altar. My throat constricted at the sight. I hurried forward and fell to my knees beside the prone man. It was the reverend, and even before I had turned him around to reveal his white face and the lifeless eyes, wide open and empty, I knew that there was nothing I could do for him. He must have been dead for hours.

I have often been confronted with death during my lifetime, but it never failed to elicit a feeling of helplessness in me, of desperate anger and the torturing doubt that I might have had the power to prevent it. We never spoke about it, but I knew that Holmes felt the same, especially if it came to the death of his clients, and I could see the sentiment written plainly on his face as he stared down at Haddington's still body. Lestrade swore under his breath.

"I told him not to go back," he muttered. "I warned him!"

"But of what, Inspector?" Holmes inquired rhetorically. "Watson?"

"Heart failure, as far as I can tell," I informed them after a brief examination. "Not particularly surprising, considering his poor shape. It looks like he was literally frightened to death."

None of us needed to voice the obvious implications.

"I must send a message to the Yard," Lestrade said heavily as he rose to his feet. "There will be an investigation, though it may come to nothing. I suppose you would like to have a look around while the scene is still fresh?"

Holmes gave him a curt nod, and it was a testament to his subdued spirits that he forewent a sarcastic reply.

 

I would have expected my friend to examine the area around the altar immediately, but instead he drew me toward the back of the church. Not far from the main entrance a portion of the floor had broken down, large enough that a man could climb through, and Holmes, who had come prepared for the occasion, proceeded to light his lamp.

"Come, Watson," he ordered. "Let us see what secrets are buried beneath these sacred halls."  
I climbed down the hole after him and found myself on top of a small staircase which led a few steps down and into a narrow corridor that only just permitted a tall man to stand upright. Holmes cowered beside a pile of rubble and inspected a large, broken slab of rock in the dim light of his lamp.

"This must have been the stone that covered the entrance," he explained. "There are carvings and decorations. As old as the church, surely, perhaps older."

His slender fingers ran across the surface and traced the central crucifix.

"A ward, perhaps, against the heathen gods that were worshipped in these chambers?"

"It is possible," he admitted. "Many Christian churches are built upon the remains of heathen temples. Some say that there may be a strange attraction inherent in these locations, places where people have worshipped their gods for thousands of years. But though the maintenance of those locations was surely beneficial to the early missionaries, the original purpose must have repelled them as demonic."

He rose and descended the roughly flagged steps, and I drew my coat tighter around my shoulders as I followed him. It seemed even colder down here than it had been in the church itself, and the dim light faded as we walked further from the entrance. Holmes' lamp cast flickering shadows upon the ancient brick walls and the rough stone floor.

The structure itself was not large, and we followed the main corridor until we reached the small, rectangular chamber at the far end. In its middle stood a plain stone table that looked like it may once have been an altar. Otherwise the room was completely empty.

"No one has been here for weeks," my friend observed as he swept his hand over the dusty surface of the stone. "Watson! Look at this!"

The surface of the table was flat and withered, but on the front side there was a single carving, the only obvious decoration I could detect in the entire room. It was rough and hardly distinguishable, likely drawn by an unpracticed hand, but I recognized a bearded man in a chariot, and beside him a four-legged creature that appeared to sprout three heads.

"Cerberus," I breathed. "The hellish dog that accompanies the Roman God of Death."

"This is a Plutonion." Holmes' eyes were gleaming in the lamplight. "A sanctum of Pluto. I heard that they were often located in caves and underground locations. No wonder the Christian missionaries sealed it with a crucifix."

We both proceeded to examine the wall and the floors, but they appeared to be made of solid brick with no distinguishing qualities. Two smaller corridors intersected the main one we had chosen, but they held no more surprises for us, as one ended in a small chamber that may have served as a store room and the other was caved in. There was no more information to be gained here, and I must admit that I was more grateful than I can admit with a rational mind when we left the ancient sanctuary.

My friend devoted another hour to the inspection of the church itself, during which I was given access to the vicarage by the police that had arrived in the meantime and, with Lestrade's permission, rifled through the bills and financial reports that were neatly stacked in Haddington's study. At least for the past five years, I could state with confidence when Holmes joined me eventually, nothing out of the ordinary seemed to have befallen either him or the parish. 

 

"The treasure hunting theory has considerable flaws," Holmes admitted as we walked through the heavy front doors of the church again later that evening. "But we should not disregard it completely. One of us should take watch at the entrance to the underground chambers." 

"That would be me," Lestrade supplied, "if you could enlighten me why your hitherto favoured theory has suddenly become less likely?"

"Because the treasure hunters would have had ample opportunity to search the rooms after Haddington's death, yet the dust on the floor indicated that no-one entered them for some time. Unless they were disturbed, which cannot be ruled out at this point, it was not the sanctuary they were interested in." He gave us one of his quick smiles that were both maddeningly superior and entirely irresistible to watch. "We must remind ourselves that the most obvious solution is not always the correct one."

"You think it likely that it was some personal grudge?" I rubbed my hands together to warm my freezing fingers. "The reverend did not strike me as the sort of person to make enemies."

"You can never tell that from a single meeting," Holmes reminded me severely. "I have already identified several individuals I wish to question tomorrow. But this church might hold more secrets yet, and if someone is interested in those secrets, tonight is the night we must not miss."

"Thanks for the reminder," Lestrade muttered with a dark look toward the altar. The inspector had been less than pleased by Holmes' insistence on a stakeout, but had agreed to join us nevertheless.

"Watson and I will take position in the front row near the place where we found the body." Holmes gestured with the hand that was holding his shuttered lamp. "Each of us will signal if they need help. Good luck, Inspector."

"Good luck to you." The inspector made to walk towards the large pillar that would provide his cover, but hesitated on his way. "Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson..." 

"Yes?"

"It's... nothing." Lestrade faltered. "Only… should you, by any chance, happen to see a ghost, don't unsettle it."

Holmes stared at him. 

The inspector shrugged. "My grandmother believed in these sorts of things," he said defensively. "She used to say that the dead are not malicious, but they should not be disturbed. In these surroundings, one could almost believe…" He shivered and averted his eyes.

"Really, Inspector." Holmes gave him a severe look. "You are not telling me you believe in spectres that float through walls and kill innocent people with their icy touch. I had thought you a sensible fellow."

Lestrade shot him a glare. 

"I warned one man, and he did not listen," he snapped. "Contrary to all appearances, I do care about your fate, Mr Holmes, and the Doctor's as well. I'll be on my post if you need me." With that he turned and walked briskly down the aisle.

 

I experienced many long nights of vigil in the company of my friend Holmes, huddled behind bushes, squeezed together in a broom shed or hiding behind a curtain, but I must admit that being crouched at the foot of a church bench proved to be one of the most uncomfortable positions. Yet the church was sparsely decorated, and except for the large pillars and stairs toward the gallery near the entrance, it offered no place for shelter. The cold was seeping into my very bones, and it seemed mere minutes before my leg began to radiate a dull ache. Holmes, who was positioned so that he could overview our surroundings and not be seen if he remained careful, seemed aware of my discomfort.

"I'm sorry, Watson," he whispered as I shifted painfully. "Here, let me."

He reached out to knead my cramped thigh without pausing in his surveillance, and I was grateful that he could not see the colour rise in my face. He had done me this particular favour before, knowing that it helped to ease the pain, and I felt that any untoward thoughts on my part were particularly out of order considering that we were not only on a case, but also inside a church. With a considerable force of will I ignored his touch and instead continued to watch him from the corner of my eye while his sharp gaze surveyed the room, lost in the single-minded concentration that always indicated the full height of his powers. Suddenly he froze beside me. 

"Where's Lestrade?"

I looked up in alarm. Lestrade's faint shadow had been visible from our hiding place, though only discernable if one knew what to look for. But Holmes' eyes were sharper than mine, and now that I strained my eyes, I realized that I could see no trace of him.

Holmes swore quietly under his breath while I reached for my revolver, and together we slid back through the rows of seats until we reached the back of the church. Lestrade was nowhere to be seen. The front door was locked from the inside, but through the silence we could hear faint noises echo from the hole that led towards the ancient chambers.

"What is he doing down there?" Holmes hissed in dismay.

"I will go after him." I caught Holmes' arm before he had voiced his protest. "We can't both go or someone could trap us in there. I'll be in shouting distance."

My friend's eyes narrowed. I knew him well enough to see that he was thinking rapidly.

"Holmes, you know I've done these things before. You can wait at the entrance, so you can both watch the altar and cover my back. If there's trouble ahead, I'll come and get you."

He hesitated, but for once the logic of my argument could not be denied. 

"Return within five minutes," he decided. "If you fail to do so, I'll come and search for you."

He caught my hand only for a moment, and when I met his eyes I saw in them the same excitement that was running through my own veins. There was danger in our trade, it is true; but both Holmes and I have always relished in the challenge inherent in moments like these.  
I smiled grimly and lowered myself through the hole that led to the ancient sanctum.

 

The corridor was almost entirely dark. Holmes had handed me his lamp, but I was careful to use only the minimum amount of light I needed to be aware of my surroundings. Very carefully I descended the stairs and made my way towards the chamber that held the altar, yet as I walked forwards I felt like the blackness was beginning to recede slightly, and the shape of the brick walls stood out more clearly against the darkness. I chastised myself for my overactive imagination, but still could not suppress the feeling that it was getting colder with every step, and I shivered in my heavy cloak. 

Eventually I began to discern the faint murmurs of a voice, a low, urgent voice that belonged to a man. It meant that someone was here, and more than one person as well if they were talking to each other. Yet it seemed that there was only one man speaking while the other, or others, remained silent.

Only when I had almost reached the chamber I was able to distinguish the words, and also to identify the pattern of speech that I recognized even though the man was talking under his breath.

It was Lestrade.

"… know that this must be very confusing," he said urgently, "But you must trust me. You know I am telling you the truth, and I am in dire need of your support."

For a moment I froze in my tracks. I had no idea what he was talking about, but it did not sound like he was arguing with an assailant. An ugly suspicion took hold of my mind, and I moved swiftly forward.

"You should not be here," the inspector continued. "None of you should. Go back, and lock the gate behind you. I have no means…"

He broke off and turned when I stepped into the room. I must admit that I paid him little attention, for the sight before me made me question my own sanity.

The farther wall of the small chamber, which had been solid rock when Holmes had examined it, was shimmering in a strange light as if it was weirdly translucent. Before it stood Reverend Thomas Haddington, looking exactly as I had last seen him alive, portly and whiskered and ruddy-faced; but his outlines seemed faded in an eerie way, like a watercolour drawing that was carried through the rain, and I felt that if I had tried really hard I would have been able to see the wall on his other side. He turned to look at me, and his eyes widened.

"Keep calm," I heard Lestrade's voice beside me, carrying a distinct edge of panic. "He is no threat to you. It will all work out if you trust me."

I had assumed, with the part of my brain that was still capable of rational thought, that he had addressed me, but it was Haddington - or rather, the strange apparition that resembled the Reverend - who nodded slowly and began to retreat. Before my unbelieving eyes he simply faded into the wall behind him, which turned solid again for a moment before it began to crack.

And then, while my horrified mind was still unable to process what I thought I had seen, the walls around us started to crumble. I wheeled around just to watch the doorway collapse and disappear in a cloud of dust, and behind us there was the most horrible rumbling noise that sounded like the whole sanctuary was about to collapse in itself. Bricks were falling from the ceiling, and I braced myself against a shaking wall and covered my head with my arms, desperately attempting to suppress the overwhelming terror that came with the certainty of being doomed. I found myself wishing fervently but against all hope that Holmes would not come after me, as there was no way he could reach us and it would only bring about his own destruction.

Just then a harsh grip around my upper arm disrupted my panic, and when I looked up Lestrade was by my side, white-faced and with a streak of blood smeared over his cheek. His dark eyes seemed very large in the dim light of my lamp. "Run, Doctor," he hissed, and then he dragged me forward, through the blinding dust, towards the rubble, and _into_ the wall.

To this day I am prepared to swear that there was no opening in the solid wall of brick that trapped us in the doomed chamber. I tried to resist but he appeared to have acquired a strength I could not match, and then, instead of experiencing the sharp pain of impact, I was overcome with a most peculiar impression of floating before my feet touched solid ground again. Lestrade had not let go of me, and he pulled me forward through the corridor's collapsing brick walls as though he was not shaken in the slightest. There was a cry of relief, and in the dim light I saw Holmes stumbling toward us, shielding his head with one arm as he dodged the falling rubble. He grabbed my hand and together we raced up the small staircase, helped each other through the opening and ran toward the front door. Lestrade’s hand shook as he grabbed the key, but it turned smoothly, and we had barely reached the safety of the graveyard before a large portion of the ancient roof collapsed behind us.

For a moment we remained standing on the spot, all three of us breathing heavily and watching in shocked awe as the dust clouded behind us. Then Lestrade straightened his back and drew a deep breath.

“It seems like the reverend was right,” he observed. “The underground works have destabilized the old foundations of the temple. I hope the rest of the building can be saved.”

Holmes let go of my hand, which until then I had not realized he had still been holding in his own. “Would you mind explaining why you left your position and wandered off into the underground rooms?” he demanded crossly. The question was entirely justified, but it was equally obvious to me that Holmes’ anger was mainly directed at a malevolent fate that made the church collapse while he was in the middle of an investigation.

“I thought I heard noises,” the inspector explained. “Nothing definite, so it was not worth disturbing your plan. I thought I’d just take a short look.” He shrugged. “Not one of my better ideas, it seems. I must have heard the cracking of the stone walls.”

“No explosion?”

“None. Did you hear anything, Doctor?” He did not wait for my answer. “I will send a team tomorrow, but this does look like it was caused naturally. It would surprise me to learn that it has any bearings on the case.”

I was grateful for the fact that Holmes was too focused on the dramatic sight before him to pay me any attention. My mind was still in disarray, and I must have stared at Lestrade like I had never seen him before. The inspector turned around to meet my gaze, and the look in his eyes was clearly pleading. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head.

“No, Inspector,” I acknowledged. “There was nothing out of the ordinary.”

 

The end of the affair is quickly told. We spent the rest of the night hiding behind bushes to keep a clear view of the building, but our efforts were in vain. For several days Holmes engaged in fruitless enquiries and invented theories that could never be proven. I supported him as well as I could but actively encouraged the idea that those spectres had been nothing than a figment of Haddleton’s imagination, for no other proof for their existence could ever be found. After more than a week of inconclusive investigations Holmes laid the case to rest, though I am sure he never forgot about it. The church itself was renovated, though the ancient sanctum could not be saved, and no ghost sightings have been reported from the site ever since. 

 

Over the many decades of friendship between the good inspector and myself the strange events of that night were never spoken of. It would be a lie to claim that I did not dwell on them, but I was reluctant to ask and he did not volunteer, and so the whole issue must retain some element of mystery for me. Only once in all those years there was an incident that forcibly reminded me of the Hollyblossom case, and to this day I am not sure it held any significance at all. 

It was on the painful day shortly after the tragedy of the Reichenbach Falls, when an official memorial was held in honour of my friend Holmes, who was, at the time, universally believed dead. Of that day itself my memory is blurred; most of the time my faithful Mary remained at my side, and the countless condolences and polite reminiscences of the numerous guests very nearly overstrained my capacity to remain calm and collected. But I remember how Lestrade approached me some time after the service, when I had stepped away from the group that was still assembled in front of the church to have a few moments of privacy. He spared me the empty words and meaningless phrases I had heard too many times already, but instead watched the bees buzzing around a large bush of jasmine for a long while.

"I heard," he remarked eventually, "that his mortal remains were never found."

"Indeed." I forced myself to remain calm despite the agonizing pain in my chest. "The surroundings made it impossible. There is a certain irony in that, is there not? They will rest together for all times."

"Perhaps." The inspector's eyes met mine, dark and unreadable. "Perhaps not."

"I do not follow."

"A common friend used to point out that the most obvious solution is not always the correct one." He smiled, and I thought that he looked sad and old and so much wiser than the pragmatic, self-important friend I had come to cherish over the years. "You did not see him fall, did you, Doctor?"

With a pat on my arm he excused himself and went back to join Hopkins and Gregson. I stared after him for a while, puzzled and bemused, but eventually decided to disregard the idea as a wishful fancy. 

 

Years later, when Lestrade and I were toasting my friend for his miraculous return from the dead and Colonel Moran's capture, I remembered the inspector's words. I told myself that they meant nothing, that the unlikely truth of them could only be ascribed to a strange coincidence. Yet I recalled how he had, to all appearances, talked to a ghost and dragged me through a solid wall, and I wondered.

Still I cannot make up my mind about it; it seems too audacious a thought and well beyond the realm of imagination. Yet to this day I have never been able to stop asking myself if, just maybe, it is possible that truly he knew.

 

**One more note:** The chapel and its address are purely fictional. St. Michael, the archangel, is said to awaken the dead on the day of the Last Judgment.


End file.
